Tuesday, 29 January 2013

It was a
Saturday, and we all know what that means. Exhibition after invariable
exhibition when all I wanted to do was nosedive head first into Dorian Gray in
the library. And before I could present my symptoms of an unhealthily warm
forehead, a cough that without rest, could definitely develop into the whooping
cough and plead that “I am just not well, mother!” we had already arrived.

After enduring about
as much boredom as I could, I managed to escape my mother’s tentacles and darted
from floor to floor of the gallery, hiding behind statue and pillar whenever
adults came into view. In my waistcoat pocket resided my pocket watch engraved
with the initials V.A. which I often traced with my index finger when feeling
lonely.

I had never been
given a genuine explanation, you see, I had merely accepted the fact that the
only parent I would ever have was the personification of neurosis that brought
me here. I learned not to ask questions. But one day when lucid, my mother
entered my room and, sitting beside me, presented this pocket watch. With
difficulty she articulated, “Colin, I have something for you. It was your…your
fathers”, and that was all that was offered. And I think the 12 year-old Colin
knew that this watch wasn’t compensating in some miraculous way for the absence
of a father, but it consoled him and consolation was more than was offered by
anybody else. But as I knew not a thing about him, I was left to dream up my
own portrayals of my father, which usually took the form of some
dissatisfied-with-civilisation type of character, predestined to conquer never
before conquered planets having developed his own unparalleled spacecraft. I
envisioned him transporting sections of the Pacific Ocean
(though I wasn’t sure how) across to planet Feradica, the integral resource for
cultivation.

What I also
inferred was that somehow, amidst collecting some of the Pacific and packing
enough pairs of socks, my father had accidentally taken with him the magic
missing link to this pocket watch. As, for reasons unknown and despite
innumerable battery changes, I had not observed one tick in the seven years it
had been in my possession. And still, it was as attached to me as a blanky is
to a three year-old. Perhaps in the haze of frantic packing he forgot to pack
me, for which I’m sure he has never forgiven himself.

The gallery was
one of those fabulous, multi-storied contemporary buildings, painted a
pearl-white. It was filled with modern delights such as giant pieces of paper
with what looked like unintentional paint-splashes smeared across them. There
was no coherence to them and the descriptions given didn’t really allay your
confusion. What I didn’t know then, I would understand with time. And so, reaching
the first floor, I crept through the double doors, panning left and right
before discreetly slipping up the stairs to the second floor. Gliding through
the opening, with a spring-fuelled step, I was filled with surprise as I fell
into a room that hosted a flavourful blend of masterpieces. Sullen yet soulful,
I absorbed colour after lurid colour before noticing one particular contrasting
figure.

Clad in ebony
from boot to brow with pupils larger than the moon, the most bizarre character
I had ever laid eyes on was kneeling on the ground before a flawless
masterpiece. Odd? Definitely. Yet the notion of him kneeling before a painting
bore no comparison to the impossibly enormous magnifying glass he was holding. He
looked like he might have been handsome in his youth, an easy on the eyes
demi-god that was met with dropping-jaws upon entering every room. But the bags
that trailed beneath his eyes now cast shadows across his weathered facial features,
and he was so still and alone in his task, whatever it was that I felt empathetic.
Alone was served as a side-dish with my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I watched
a while as the magnifying glass was moved by its owner, his eyes scrutinizing
every grain of splendour, every speck of paint. The most surreal element was
that there were at least thirty others in the room and most of them were adults,
yet they appeared to evade this strangeness, or impossibly, they did not
consider this strange at all. Perhaps this was considered as normal behaviour
in the art world, but not to me. The 12 year-old Colin Benedict found this
thoroughly intriguing and much more inviting than splashes of figureless paint.
What ever could he be looking for? This was a question I needed answering.

I approached
slowly, ensuring not to startle him and whispered, “What are you looking for?”
This was ineffectual, as he did not move a millimetre. I reiterated. No change.
I tried a third time before submitting. But this enigma was one so curious that
I couldn’t withdraw my eyes from him. He had no bag with him that I could see,
and seemingly, no pockets on his cloak to store money, or keys to a house he
shared with another, or a picture of a loved one, no phone – nothing. Only the
magnifying glass. And the strangeness, the peculiarity, the mystery, it was
wonderful. Regardless of him being unwilling to respond, I knew I had to figure
it out, so I turned to the painting.

The image before
me was one I was very familiar with, for it was pasted on every billboard in
the area, in every carriage of every train and every window of every cafe I had
walked by in coming here. It was an encapsulation of freedom, or freedom as
some knew it, excluding my 12 year-old self. It was an illustration of a
multiplex of retail stores cluttered with dark soulless characters, their faces
draped in apathy. Only, there was one face that rather contrasted the
collection of ghouls. In the centre was a lady smiling, smothered in green and
dressed as the statue of liberty.

What was
peculiar- the 12 year-old Colin noticed- was the tablet she was holding. As
opposed to saying ‘July 4,
1776’ in Roman Numerals, it read ‘Diet or Regular?’ But I didn’t
really grasp it, or what this man was doing. And yet I needed to understand,
something about this whole affair spoke to me. I was particularly interested in
why the statue of liberty had six spikes in her crown where there are usually seven,
and I wondered…could this be the reason for his strange behaviour? Was this a
fake? I had to find out. And so, as confidently as possible, I began…

“I-”

“There you are!
I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Your mother has been worried sick”, the
boyfriend Lawrence
interjected. In my moment of absorption, I’d displaced the idea that they may
have realised I had wandered off. But the only ‘guardian’ in view was Lawrence, so apparently
my mother wasn’t worried enough to climb a few stairwells.

“I... I’m sorry,
but I just need to-”

“You just need
to come with me, boy!” I hated that he called me that. “We’re going to be late
after your little disappearance”, he complained pulling me along.

Neck over
shoulder, I watched as the figure that had captivated me became smaller and
smaller, yet somehow the magnifying glass retained its enormity. I would return
tomorrow. I had to. The several hours that followed were a blurry haze of paint
and sculptures. Before I knew it, the day had passed. My mother came in my
room, kissed me on the cheek, told me to be nicer to “Your new father”, and
left. How could she impose such an important title so passively? Did she care
about me at all? “New father”. This implied that I had the current presence of
a father-figure that had replaced one I had before him. I could confirm
neither.

My mind struggled
to locate the off switch that evening, resulting in a solid two hours of sleep.
But as I woke, I felt I was already going to be too late. That did not stop me.
I pulled on my lucky red jumper and after promising that I would be home from
“The library” by two, I took a forty minute tube ride before escaping the
station. Hordes of militant shoppers, businessmen and -women interspersed with
scatterings of snowflakes made for one hell of a challenging journey across
town.

Fortunately I was
tiny and drunk on adrenaline. I had just two hours remaining before mother
would realise I had borrowed twenty-five pounds from her purse without consent,
that the library books I was returning were in my room and that I had not taken
Stevie for a walk, which I was riddled with guilt about. So I hastened,
traversing the bridge. And suddenly I was at the entrance.

My heart’s thud
escalated. How exciting. More exciting than anything I had ever done. I had
travelled all the way across town – by myself! I survived it! And yet as I walked
in, my motion slowed to the extent that I was almost immobile.

Was it not a
little excessive, this whole thing? Why had I been so attracted to this man?
Why did this quest hold such a great value that I just had to come back? The
truth is I didn’t know. All I knew was that if I had tried to leave the gallery
in that moment, I might probably have definitely spontaneously combusted. I
pushed through the door and stumbled into what seemed like a much larger foyer
than yesterday. Everything seemed so much bigger than when I had adults accompanying
me. Perhaps I had miscalculated the spikes. And what if I was wrong? What if
the man was just strange? These reservations hindered me in no respect
whatsoever. Masses of people were buying tickets, and my curfew was fast approaching,
so I had no choice but to find an alternative. At about this time, I
conveniently noticed the single guard surveying the ground floor.

It was decided:
as soon as his attention was deterred, I would make a break for the stairs. So
I waited, and waited, and waited some more. And then…somehow…my wish was
granted. A lady in blue came into view. She asked the guard to take a photo of
her with her family, which he probably shouldn’t have done. But he did. And I
seized the opportunity. Ever so calmly, I headed straight for and then
conquered the flight of stairs. The second level of stairs soon fell away
behind me. I moved into the foyer and glancing to the left, my eyes immediately
fell upon the man in black.

Gulping, I moved
closer towards him, until I was directly next to him and opening my mouth,
gesturing with my left hand, “I-“

“There you are
you little rat! How dare you enter the gallery without having purchased a
ticket? How did you ever get up here?”

The guard
accused a boy in red at the other side of the gallery.

“I ought to
throw you out!”

I turned and
tugged on the man’s velvet jacket. He did not respond.

“Oh it wasn’t
you was it? Well then who could it have been?” The guard patronised, before
noticing in his peripheral vision, me…Colin Benedict.

“What do you
think you are doing? Take your hand off my son!” The mother of the accused
yelped.

“Uh oh”, I tugged some more, “Listen Mr, the
reason I came here today is because I saw you studying this painting yesterday
and, well, I noticed something peculiar and felt it would have been wrong not
to tell you-”

“YOU! Come with
me at once, you have much explaining to do!” He clutched my red jumper,
splashes of snow falling onto and yet not discouraging his tight grasp.

The man in black
turned, “Wait…please, just a moment.”

“Well do forgive
me Mr. Alessandro, but this boy is nothing short of a common criminal”.

Ignoring him,
the man in black asked me, “What did you notice boy?”

Raising my left
hand, I pointed to the crown.

“Where there are
six spikes, there should be seven. Forgive me”, looking at the guard, “but, I
think this is a fake.”

“This is
preposterous, not only do you commit a crime”, I thought this somewhat
farfetched, “but now you are questioning the authenticity of this painting?
Apologise to Mr Alessandro at once!”

He then
proceeded in reeling off the company policy, and how I was going to be put away
for a very, very long time, though I wasn’t sure where, for I was only twelve.
And I only half heard what he was saying, as I was focused on Mr Alessandro who
didn’t seem to hear a word of this. He lifted the magnifying glass and zoomed
in on lady liberty. For what seemed like an eternity, he was fixated on the
error. And then…quivering erupted throughout his entire body; every cell
excited, every hair stood on end.

This man I would
later learn was, in fact, the artist, thus the original was like his own child,
completely and absolutely recognisable to him. So many times he had attempted
to convince Raymond Craven- the gallery owner- that this was not his work, to
no avail. He was, unfortunately, telling Raymond what Raymond already knew.

The man in black
took a step back and shaking his head, he smiled.

“It really is
true what they say about the bigger picture. Did you come all the way down here
to put me out of my misery boy?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What a decent
young fellow! How could I ever thank you?”

I pondered. I
had never wanted much, apart from my stupid pocket watch to work. And in this
moment, I could think of nothing else.

“Well, for years
I have been trying to get this to work. Is there any chance you could help me
fix it?” I extended my hand and presented the watch.

His eyes were
drawn…his gaze still…he looked at me in a way no one ever had before.

“Colin?”

“How do you know
my name? Who are you?”

He dropped the
magnifying glass. “My name is Vincent. Vincent Alessandro.”

There was no need to trace the
engraving ever again. And though I didn’t feel it reverberate, for the first
time in seven years, the pocket watch ticked.

Thursday, 10 January 2013

Faces beg for answers…for a while. It usually happens when they’re glowing every colour of the spectrum: violet, blue, green, yellow, orange, red; sometimes all at once. A child’s face is a prism of antidotes to eye-sores. A prism, like a man-made pyramid coloured by the sun, built by sun-reddened hands, some wrinkled, some as young as children’s hands. Children with fewer colours in their faces.

Questions asked become questions answered. Answers generate more questions, which generate more answers. Time passes. The question of “Who built the pyramids?” is answered. The questions become fewer, until the questioning process doesn’t make sense anymore.

Gradually, the colour stops emanating from faces. The pyramids wear with the winds of time, like faces. Cracks in the pavement are flooded with rain until they open up the Earth. A hand drops the remainder of his nicotine-crutch and watches as it is swallowed by the ground. Houses under siege of roaring waters trample castles made of sand and become marine automobiles.

A mocking bird hears dreams collecting, he reiterates them. Decides they’re his dreams too. He sings so hard his eyes close. He doesn’t see the tempest he is flying into.

The inevitability of dissatisfaction ensues. People rely on the sun, the moon, the rainbow to give colour back to them. And they do, because nature doesn’t disappoint: we do. We self-destruct, we devalue riches. We adorn what requires no adornment. And while a frown can redirect your path up a steep and oxygen-less hill, a smile sends you on a bike downhill, lasts much longer. Hope remains, despite statistics or unlikelihood of hope’s success. Colours return to faces, and as they do, they see the colours of others, projected, through layer upon layer of clouds brimming with tears and form rainbows.

Friday, 4 January 2013

The distant lulls of moving traffic, the fluttering of paper cradling freshly lain flowers, stray hairs dancing before your irises pining for your attention. Windmills firing air in different directions, light leaving us slowly but unmistakeably, leaving us. This is my favourite place, a sanctuary that only I know about I’m sure. From here, I see everything: the smoke rising from wealthy chimneys, the white clusters of fluff adorning the farming plantation, transforming it into a gazing opportunity. Never a photo opportunity. Photos are 2D, always unbearably self-assured. You can’t feel your temperate drop when you look at a photograph or wince at the ache of your heels from the boots that carried you here. You can’t feel your mind getting lost in the open space, or the wind change. You cannot see the speckles of human-life conquering mountains in the distance- distant enough for one to mistake them for trees, yet close enough for you to know they are not. You cannot find yourself caving in to your tongue’s jealousy of the banquet your eyes are devouring, as you roll a cigarette. You cannot taste the sweet nicotine that appears to be boundless. You have to be fair to the senses and offer them equilibrium. Even the murmuration above are playing their part.

There is solitude and open-access to however much oxygen you can withstand, never feeling gluttonous, only weightless. The azure of the lightest, softest blue falls into the arms of the white sky, holding each other with the knowledge that they cannot hold each other long before the breeze separates them forever, permanently, unless by chance the Universe’s elements’ allow them to come together again. Perhaps they might take pity on them, knowing that yin and yang just make sense, knowing their only purpose is to rendezvous eternally. Humanness imposes thoughts on the thickest most colourful air, vivid projections from your attention-seeking imagination and you find yourself seeing everything that matters. Past; present; future; impossible, all assembling and begging you to stay here, regardless of your numbing limbs, regardless of life’s demands and time throwing itself away from you. Here your internal is exhibited. Your inner-voice dominates. Here, you are the picture inside your head, but it is never permanent- it couldn’t be. Like the blending of blue and white, nothing so wonderful can be maintained for long, but you will always find it again. Seize it when you do. Hide the restrictive technology. Pick up your fleshed-out pen and pretty notepad with lined-pages. Express your everything and the mind will change you, as your body changes your mind.

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I wonder how many times I could replace words with ‘blog’ before it becomes incomprehensible…maybe I’ll test it.
My name is Blog and thanks for blogging my blog! At the present I am a blog-drinking, blog-hogging, freeloading, blog-dodging blogger at blogspot bloggerversity. My every intention is to blog until I am out of blogs. Ok I’ll blog now.
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My name is Mary Elizabeth Webb and thanks for perusing my blog! At the present I am an alcohol-drinking, bed-hogging, freeloading, tax-dodging student at Teesside University. My every intention is to write until I am out of words, which I hope is not for a very long time. But if the above is anything to go by, it might be sooner than I could hope.